


Polonaise no. 2 in E flat minor

by senoritablack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dubious Consent, Exhibitionism, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Scent Kink, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23851873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senoritablack/pseuds/senoritablack
Summary: Sam’s attracted an admirer who only visits him while he sleeps.
Relationships: Gabriel/Sam Winchester
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	1. MELODY

A chill creeps up his arm like a spider would, slowly and unassuming, and he’s not felt it until it’s bit him at the neck and he’s woken up with a sharp intake of breath.

His hands try to bat away at the goosebumps that had formed there, but he’s stunted. Though he’s hasn’t any tangible restrictions at his wrists and legs, he’s very much stuck at the spot. His first instinct is to yell, and he does, but the sound only seems to carry back to him—this mocking reverberation that’d rival a desperate call out into a vast and lonely cave. Gone is the sound of the highway near by, the sound of trucks stopping for the night. There are no trees slinking to and from, knocking into each other with the wind. He can’t even hear Dean in the room over, who’s more than likely stayed up later than him, shooting the shit and watching sitcoms on the patch-work television. One look around confirmed that he was truly alone.

Sam is a hunter. He’d been down and out, tied up before and knows there is no use for panic. He looks for answers in every corner, because _he knows_. He doesn’t care to question whatever it was that has him in a hold in the first place, only cares that it wasn’t currently here, because _he knows_. He _knows_ that in situations as this, it meant he had time. He’d never know when he’d get that time or how long it’d last, but rest assured, through lengthy exposition, or fiddling with the torture details every monster somehow afforded both Winchesters time. And time was the friend of a steady plan, while a plan was the foundation of getting the hell out of Dodge. Sam remembers, in the short _time_ between struggling against his invisible bonds and the feeling of dread as a new presence pervades the room, that he’s stuck a silver blade between the boxspring and mattress. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

“Hi Sam.”

The voice is relaxed, syrupy thick -- burns to listen to like lower shelf bourbon down the throat. Sam’s eyes are forced shut, they water as the being comes to in a burst of golden light, and his eyes stay spotted even after the color dies out and the being is casted back into the shadows of his suite room.

Sam looks down the bridge of his nose, passed his bare boned body and finds the being stood at the foot of his bed. It’s head is tilted, as if it’s calculating Sam’s very existence -- as if it was the one who had been imposed on. It boils Sam’s blood.

“What do you want?” Sam growls.

“That—do that again.” The voice hums in delight.

Sam considers the being before him. The figure is just that—a silhouette of a man with no apparent attributes other than being relatively petite, but nonetheless, carries with it an omnipresent sense of foreboding. Sam flushes with a mixture of anger and proceeding shame, as a chill runs down his spine.

“What do you want?” Sam presses again in his more diplomatic voice, the one he uses when he thinks that brain might out wit brawn in hand that he’s been dealt.

“Been watching you, Sam.” The being says, “You’re that unfinished crossword on my nightstand—I can’t seem to figure out why the hell _it’s you_ , kid. You know how frustrating that is, to a being like me?”

“Do I know you?”

“Shit, you’re so damn...” 

The being falls quiet. Sam goes still. He strains his eyes, again trying to fill out the features of the figure before him, but it’s still defiantly dark and the only light that falls into the room is a concentrated sliver permitted from the blinds that colors Sam’s feet. Then he hears it, a small sigh and the slow pull of a zipper being undone. The figure treads closer. It’s thighs hit the bed post and Sam sees it, the tiny sliver of light had shifted with time or magic, he’s unsure, but it’s now illuminating the unclasped jeans, rough fingers fumbling through thin hair and slipping slowly down until Sam can’t see them anymore. Sam turns his head, not needing to see what else the hand is doing, because he could hear now. The being’s long exhales, the rhythmic movement of its body, rocking into the bedpost, sending harsh vibrations that flow onto Sam like ocean waves crashing upon a cliffside. In all his years of hunting, he’s never…he’s never encountered something quite like this.

“Why are you…” Sam voice catches. He clears his throat. “Why are you doing this?”

“Watching got old.”

The figure lets out a filthy moan and Sam glares into the darkness.

“You’re sick! Who are you?” Sam yells.

“Been so curious…” It says.

“Who - the hell - are you!”

“Yours…”

“Mine? My—“ Sam’s voice is willed away. He tries again, but the room is silent save his uninvited guest who’s now set up a faster pace.

“Shhh, Sam, just listen.”

Sam tries to do everything but. He’s suddenly filled with a venomous dose of despair and anger, a sense of stinging shame for having not known that he’d been being followed in the first place. And now, this. He tries not to think of the inevitable, here, but it’s too probable that the being just might want more from Sam. And if Sam were to resist, he doesn’t know that it’d matter. If it’d no qualms about tying up Sam and doing _that_ in front of him, the being might also assume it could just take from Sam whatever it’d like. Sam grits his teeth, jaw sore with it.

“You’re thinking too loudly. I’m telling you to listen. You beautiful, stubborn human.” It says. It shifts. 

Sam gasps—aloud, because suddenly there is a weight upon his chest like a bag of bricks had been thrown upon him and he’s winded, surprised, too, that he could again make sound at all.

The being, still casted in the night, straddles his chest. Sam can’t see it's face. Can’t make out any features, but glowing, amber eyes. They terrify him. They’re as haunting as the yellow-eyed demon that’d killed his mom, the murder that drove his father to bloodlust, the obsession that had corrupted his childhood with each move for revenge. Sam’s sick with disgust.

“Get - off - me!” Sam protests again, struggling. He--he feels like he's forgetting how to breathe--that he's not allowed to.

Sam tries to breathe again, tries to move, but it only encourages the being. The being digs sharply into the meat of his chin and cheek, and turns it—and Sam could feel it’s hot breath at his neck. He can feel now, that with every deep inhale, the being shudders above him as if Sam’s skin was lined with cocaine—and then it rears its head back, only for it to fall into the space above his collar bones again, reveling in Sam’s scent.

Sam feels the heavy length, the hand against his stomach, wild in movement. He wishes desperately to be free of his bonds, to shove the being off him, to not feel the impending dread of what might come, but now…he also wants. Deep down, some animalistic part of him, is desperate to move because he wants to grab hold of the hair that tickles his neck, to buck up wildly into the warm body above him.He feels shame again, and tries to reign it it, pass the flush for anger—holding tight on the indignant part of himself, the rational part who knows that _wanting_ and _giving_ will not end good.

“Sam, Sam, Sam.” The being chants, inhaling in Sam one last time before it’s thrown into a full body stutter, quickly overworking itself into its own hands before stopping, and spilling itself all over Sam’s stomach and thighs. There’s a beat of silence between them, and then the being fingers over the mess that it’s made.

“Were you listening? Can you hear it now, Sam?” It asks.

“I…”

“You will.”

Sam hears a snap of fingers and the weight is lifted. He could move. The cold that had come with October floods around him and he shivers. The sound of night slowly makes itself back into the room, crowding his senses, but Sam could hear only his own ragged breath. Could only feel the hot, mess on his stomach. The weight of his own reluctant arousal threatening a release under his sweat bottoms. The anger that he’d momentarily forgotten, flares up again and he’s up and maniacally searching the room for any marker of the being that was just there. He’s alone again. He drags his bedsheets over his stomach, wiping at the mess as if were acid set to burn him. His hand makes it way underneath the mattress, and holds the found knife at his chest like a rosary and closes his eyes. He doesn’t dare fall asleep for the rest of the night. 


	2. METRE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam had thought he prepared.

When it happens again, Sam’s not taken abruptly from sleep, he’s coaxed out of it—he doesn’t fight for breath as if he’d been kept underwater, but lets out a contented sigh as if he’d heed the call of some siren who lurks above it.

He’s not afraid. He’s done his research. There was lore that went back centuries. He’s sure, now, of what he’d been dealing with and had laid down tonight and others since, with a demon trap painted above his motel bed and bottle of holy water sat on his nightstand. This time when Sam wakes and once again feels his lungs constrict, he does not fight it.

Not unlike their last meeting, Sam cannot see a thing. But the floorboards creek, nonetheless, and Sam’s acutely aware of each step. He hears the being purr, hears it hum the melody of a Chopin polonaise as it gets closer, before the tune—much like a pianist would had they struck roughly into the wrong chord—comes to a jarring end. It sighs its frustrations.

“You’re wearing too much.” says the being.

With a snap, Sam’s gone bare save his underwear and the familiar weight, like sand out a bucket, is poured over him, trapping him to the spot. The beings rested on his thighs without a stitch on and Sam could feel it, could hear it, the being shuffle above him, the way it grinds into Sam's hardening cock. He could feel the being's own, bouncing and wet at his belly button. Then there are hands, soft skin and bony fingers, rounding down Sam’s shoulders, fingering into his biceps and puppeteering his arms to cross above his head. The being bows, places its cheek on Sam’s bare chest and Sam could feel it’s cackle, fanned across him when he shivers. He’s goes warm with anger and embarrassment.

“Don’t touch me!” Sam says.

“No?” The being laughs.

Sam starts to chant the exorcist rite, but a strong hand flies over his mouth. Sam sees amber again, closer than it'd been before, wide eyes that promise mischief, that convey sincerity, that demand—but nothing else.

“Aw, kiddo, what is it that you think I am exactly?”

The being retreats, crowds into Sam’s underarm and Sam’s own breath hitches at the new intrusion. It noses into his hair there, taking in a belly full of Sam, before releasing the breath with a blissed out sigh. It repeats it self, meditatively, again, again, and one more time after until Sam feels the being twitching over him.

“Delightful as your new decor is, I’m not a demon.” It finally says.

Sam breathes heavier, and holds back a moan when a tongue licks at his pit.

“You don't get what you do to me.” the being says, breathy, desperate.

Sam feels the being shift, feels the leaking cock head writhing into his rib, the knuckles that kneed into his skin, forming themselves around its length, and brush up and down Sam’s stomach.

Sam tries not to look. But he does, god he does and it’s not if he could see any features, but he tries. He’s narrowing his eyes, straining for more definition, hoping that his eyes would adjust to the dark just that much more—just enough.

He laughs in self-depreciation, breathing “shit, shit, shit” into the darkness because he knows that he’s messed up in wanting to look… he’d might as well be inviting the being to do more. And what exactly was more? He hopes, maybe foolishly, that this would end as it did before, that the being would leave after, and that it’d leave _satisfied_ , without asking more of him. Sam wouldn’t go without a fight. He wouldn’t.

“If you’re—you're not a demon, what are you?” Sam manages. “Why else would you...”

“Listen…” it says as it has before.

Sam does, all he could do, because now his skin is on fire—with every brush of skin that he could hear, with every small moan the being emits, the indecent mutterings of “ _Sam_ ” that grow louder and more drawn out with each thrust, Sam can’t stand it anymore. The being shakes, still rutting up into its own palm, pressed roughly into Sam’s abdomen.

Sam closes his eyes, his fingers flex trying to ball into fists, hoping that they’d be willed to move—anything to—he gulps. He smells the sweat, feels it collecting at his side and he can’t deny it now, licking his lips, his own arousal. Shame cuts into him, prickles all over his exposed skin, but it’s corrupted by a twitching, possessive hunger—an unparalleled need that has his dick bouncing heavy and wet with each minuscule jerk of his hips into the hot skin above him.

It’s only then, when he’s done just that, that he realizes that he could. He does it again, swifter this time, and moans, fighting for a better angle, wishing for more friction and the being shifts away. Sam’s whines at the loss of contact, his breath catching with the next thrust into the air.

“That’s it, Sam.” It murmurs.

“Shit, what are you doing to me?” Sam cries. “Fuck.”

He’s intoxicated, sweaty and leaking, so desperate for touch, hissing at feel of the textured hemline of his cotton boxer briefs with each push into them.

“You’re beautiful.” The figure sighs, “So good.”

Sam could hear it now—passed the shuffling sheets and groans, the need is carried within the being’s inflections—the heart of what the being is offering: want. To possess. He’d missed it the first time, tried to deny it. But now Sam could hear it, the want, because he’s learned it—Sam wants. To have. To possess.

“You’d do anything for it now, wouldn’t you?” The being offers.

Sam tries to look again. It’s useless. He struggles against his hold, wishing he could move his hands, starved for something more solid and warm to close around him and lets out a frustrated groan when the being’s warm mouth licks at him through his boxers and stays close. It doesn’t lick again, but it’s cheek presses hard into Sam’s groin and it inhales. It clutches harshly into Sam’ sides, head bobbing up and down with Sam’s wild movements and Sam is just so painfully close. 

He wants to beg, he wants to give—to take—he’s game for anything, but his traitorous pride and paranoia doesn’t allow him to, so he holds back the prayers, worrying his lips with teeth. Then the being has let go of his sides, nosing impossibly harder into the wet patch he and Sam’s made, hissing and muttering, and Sam knows it’s close. Sam could hear the slide of it’s hands as it pulls, feels it tense against him, shudder, and then shut down all at once.

“You get it now?” The figure spits out hastily, mouthing Sam’s balls through soaked cotton.

“You’re mine.”

And it’s enough, just barely enough for Sam to cry out, abs clenching and toes curling into the sheets, lifting his whole body into the air as he cum right inside his boxers. When Sam’s breath has come back to him,body steady and sated, the night chimes in again. He opens his eyes to find the streetlight streaming over his naked body. He’s alone and cold with dread.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed the smut, ya dirty dogs.


	3. KEY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam makes a mistake.

It had been a month since the monster claimed Sam as his.

Sam tries his damnedest to distinguish the two realms he’s felt pushed and pulled between, tries his best to not to think about any of it in his waking life. He runs. He hunts. He eats. He goes to shitty dives to unwind with Dean and it works. That is, until he lies himself down to sleep.

It doesn’t visit him every night, but when it does Sam’s just as weary. It never presses. It never demands. It just makes Sam lie there and listen as it dictates just how much it desires him.

Sam always begs for it’s identity, it’s end game, the point—but never more than that. The being always laughs like it loves Sam’s frustration with its lack of answers, and Sam’s feckless fight with himself. _Like it knows_. Sam doesn’t doubt it if it did, if it were there in shadow, every time when Sam’s suppose to be alone in the shower, heavy in his soapy hands and scaring himself with the thought of how much he wants the being to just take him—scaring himself with how much he is now so willing to give. He's terrifyingly close to caving.

Sam does what anyone would when they’ve been hung up, he drinks himself stupid at the bar and tries to hook up with the first attractive and consenting thing that catches his eyes.

The man is shorter than him, with thick, suggestive lips and Sam needs—just god damn _needs_ them. On him, around him, it doesn’t matter. And the man, stumbling backward through the threshold of the bathroom stall, is eager to provide. They fall into each other and Sam’s hissing at the pain he feels when his head hits the wall. The forget to lock the door. They unzip each other’s pants in a flurry of unorganized handiwork, grabbing hold of one another. And they're both winded and whiskey crazed, stroking without abandon. Sam misses this. Needs more.

“What do you want?” The man breathes.

“What?” Sam looks back at the red marks he’s left on the man’s neck, focuses on the swollen lips, he’s…Sam gasps when the man squeezes tighter around him. Sam's hand falls away, grabs onto hips, bucks into the warm hand. 

Then the man falls, knees into the sticky linoleum and those lips are as good as he’d imagine on him when he first saw them close around that bar straw, slurping crudely and teasing as Sam watched.

Sam’s sucking in a breath at the warmth and slick that consumes him, shakes him, the pleasure has him holding onto the stall’s steel walls for support, for fear of legs going out, and when he’s sighing contently, and his eyes close, he could see nothing but amber.

His vision is burned in amber light before the room casted in darkness, and the warm mouth murmuring sloppy promises around his cock isn’t the voice of the man it’s _the being’s_. And then something tightens in Sam’s chest. He swears he feels fingers close around his neck. He can’t breath. He can’t see. Sam eye’s are screwed shut with the pain the amber light had left. He throws himself backwards at the same time he grabs ahold of the hair tickling his stomach, pushing the being off him, but…

“Sam?”

Sam opens his eyes again, gasping.

His mouth drops open in question, because it’s not the being, but the random man in front of him now. There are spots in his eyes, but the color of the restroom has shifted back to it's flickering fluorescent lights. And Sam’s suddenly sick, unsteady on his feet, unsure of the where he is as if coming here was not his idea. He feels uneasy because he feels like he’s done something terribly wrong.Sam reaches for his neck, feeling around frantically for the fingers, for the noose that had been tightening—he could have sworn there had been…

“I’m sorry, I—” Sam starts while the man asks, "You okay?"

Sam goes to redo his pants. He checks for his cellphone, his keys and wallet. He throws a lock of hair behind his ear and shakes his head at the man.

“—I’m sorry, I’ve got to go.”

He doesn’t wait for a reply. He drives away in earnest. He looks into the rearview at every mile as if being followed. When he makes it back to the motel, Dean’s still up.

“Strike out, or what? You were looking pretty cosy with what their face. Didn’t expect you back at all…”

“Looks like.” Sam grunts and moves towards the suit bedroom that he’s made his for the time being.

He digs his palms into his eyes, hoping to wipe out the image that is burn into his head. He breaths through his nose.

_What had that been? Was it real?_

He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights when he came in. He stares out into the night, blinking at the stray moonlight between the trees that falls in and over his thighs. They color his hands, cut off at the wrists and for sometimes he just sits staring into the them, eyeing each line and crack and blemish.

He moves on autopilot, relieving himself of his shirt and stripping to nothing but his boxers. He curls onto his side and steadies his breath. He tells himself, gulping at the un-welcomed but familiar shame, that he isn’t waiting for anything but sleep to meet him.

It’s twenty minutes until he’s stirred back to consciousness. There’s are fingers carding though his hair, soft and loving, and Sam leans into it before he blinks awake.

Amber eyes greet him, an inviting pair of lips over long face. Sam could see their face, but barely, could see the brown tuffs of hair hair falling over mischievous eyes. Sam see’s the lips, bitten with worry or holding back what they’d been trying to say. The being stares at Sam like it’s confused. Sam’s the one confused. Sam’s heart’s in his ears, blood rising to his skin, muscles working to curl his fingers in tight fists—Sam now knows who’d been haunting him.

The Trickster.

_How? He was suppose to be dead_! Sam had watched the steak Dean shoved in it’s heart cast deeper, turning, blood pouring until its fictitious blue janitor’s outfit stained red, until all it’s twisted illusions that hunted them and the light in its smug eyes had vanished. _How could it had lived?_

Like an odd sort of nod to the last time they’d met, the Trickster’s lips are downturn in surprise and caked in blood. But it isn’t his. Sam doesn't have to look to know it. He can feel it. Nonetheless Sam surveys The Trickster's body for wounds, but could only find splatters of blood, viscous maroon coloring his cheek and neck, and coating the tips of his fingers.

Sam’s not at all surprised when he’s gotten the good sense to move, he can’t. The Trickster’s got him in his infamous hold, but it’s not as it's been before. Does’t hurt when he tries to move. Not that he will. Not today.

Sam makes no such further moves, not to shift from his spot nor ask any questions he’s sure would go unanswered. And for a while, the Tricker considers Sam. Probably wondering why Sam's not trying anymore. The room’s gone quiet.

Sam heart slows—the Tricksters says, “I’m not forgiving.”—and then it stops.

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, that disgusting thing you scraped off the bar floor? You had to know…”

“What did you do?”

“Why? You worried about him?” The Trickster asks with a laugh.

It’s giggle, a failed attempt because Sam could only hear the demand in the question. Sam doesn’t dare answer yes, even if it’s the truth, so he doesn’t answer at all.

“Thing is, Sammy, what’s mine is mine. Way it's been, way it’s gotta be. And you, Sam, you’re fucking mine."

“Fuck you, I don’t belong to anyone!” Sam roars.

“That’s not really true is it?” The Tricksters stands now.

He paces towards the window in long strokes, then comes back once, leaves, and then roughly returns again, scratching at it’s beard, and then scaring Sam with how intensely close it gets. His lips brush the shell of Sam's ear, hands curve at the base of Sam’s neck and tugging tight into Sam’s hair until Sam’s head’s yanked back. He pulls until Sam's red with pain, shouting in agony.

“What will it take for you to get it? To listen, Sammy?”

It’s sounds deranged. It’s eyes are bright and shining like it’s close to crying. It’s mouth sloppy with spit.

“Fuck—you!” Sam spits. It gets the Tricker right into the cheek. Then Tricker frowns. He snaps and washed clean, from foot to toe, dressed in the same outfit but it looks pressed and smells like fresh linen. His hair's slick back like he's just gone through a shower.

Sam’s brows knit together, and the Trickster shakes his head like Sam's said the wrong thing. His chests heaves with anger now. He points a long finger at Sam, prodding it deep into his temple. And then he retreats. He conjures a folding chair, flips it around and sits down on it. His elbows rest on the chair’s back and his face is thrown in his hands.

“Thats the damn point, samadoodledumb! I just want to hear it.”

“What? Hear what!” Sam asks.

“Three letter word, small and but inviting and I will give you everything thing that noggin of yours dreamed of. I just want all this—this longing to end.” It says from it’s hands.

“I don’t want anything from you.” Sam says and he closes his eyes, doubting the weight of his conviction as the words leave him.

When Sam opens his eyes, it’s because the being has Sam’s hair in it’s hands, again, considering it’s choppy brown texture between two fingers before pulling roughly. It has has Sam’s head arching back and he’s pulled with an inhuman amount of strength to his knees. Sam’s still bound, willed to the spot with his knees spread wide and pushing the covers slightly off the bed, his toes hidden under a pillow, and wrists clasp together and draped behind his neck. He could move his fingers into his hair, he could dig his toes into the bed, could see his chest rise, but that is the very extent of the Trickster's allowance.

The Trickster kneels in front of Sam, fully clothed and leers.

“Been months, and you don’t even know what you want, do you?”

He doesn’t touch Sam, but Sam feels if the look is physical, as if it were there in whisper at the dip in his neck, tonguing at the base of his spine, pressing at his pelvic bone. It’s not true, he knows what he wants, god does he know every filthy thing he wants, but he’s just too stubborn, too unsure.

The Trickster leaves and Sam watches the movement until he’s out of his peripheral vision, looking forward when he feels the Tricker re-settles himself behind Sam. There’s a mirror propped at the end of the bed. It’s large and exceedingly clear, and Sam sees the photo the Tricker’s encapsulated in the mahogany frame. In the foreground, Sam looks an absolute mess of color and angles, looks a wreck with his red lips left open and darkening circles under his eyes, with his brown hair stuck up where it’d been tugged on, thighs spread and hands tied up in their invisible bonds. In the middle, the Trickster’s behind him with his’s eyes closes, lips miming what looks to be Sam's name, palming himself through his trousers. In the back, the dirty white wall rough with gaudy texture and age and abuse.

It’s ugly and terrifying, insane and pretty, and hot, so damn hot, this photo. He wish it were a real print, tangible, bent between his fingers, tearing it in two and he'd do it again and again. Sam mind races with scenario after scenario and they all do nothing to help his confusion. 

“What are—what are you going to do to me?” Sam asks, voice rough and unused.

The Trickster scoffs.

“I’m not going to do anything to you. It takes two to tango, hombre, and even if I don’t blame you—it still stings. I _really_ don't like feeling jealous, Sam.”

“I don’t follow…”

“You’re suppose to be the smart one?” It asks incredulously, “This isn't punishment, it’s fuckin’ penance.”

“I won’t beg.”

The Trickster sighs, finally opens his eyes. He tilts his head, considers Sam through the mirror. He snaps.

Sam's free of his briefs and there is a mountain of thick, fluffy pillow between his legs. His cock is nestled above them, it’s hardening at their velvety soft touch. It twitches, bounces in anticipation and Sam knows nothing now but a deep need.

The Trickster falls t behind Sam, knocking Sam’s legs achingly further with his knees and but keeps his body from touching Sam's back. He digs his forehead into the space between Sam’s shoulder blades, then lies a cheek against his skin before wrapping his arms around Sam, slowly tickling his way from the dip of his pelvic bones, above his navel and then over the vast expanse of his chest. He works knuckles into Sam’s skin before sprawling them out and clawing into it as it pulls Sam flush against his front. And Sam's body reels, shocked with force, greedy now. Sam feels the itchy cotton trousers tented in the cleft of his ass, and the soft roll of the Trickster's hips.

“You already are.”

“I’m not.” Sam sucks in a breath and closes his eyes tight, trying not to look at himself in the mirror, but his will fails.

He watches his dick slide slowly too and from, in-between the valleys of the soft silk pillow cases and he knows that it’s not going to be enough. He can’t breathe, he feels like the walls are closing in, he just want stop. No, he just wants to be able to move. He just wants, want's something. The Tricker's mean, teasing, rock hard and rocking into him again, painfully slow. The roll of his hips is barely detectable in the mirror but Sam could feel every inch of it, misses the contact in the minuscule moment where they have to drift apart before the Trickster could into him again. He doesn’t pick up his pace, doesn’t move to take off his own clothes, just silently rolls promises and prompting profoundly provocative images in Sam’s head. 

“Whatever it is.” The Trickster says, as if it heard Sam. “But not today.”

Then Trickster moves from him and Sam lets out a slow, stuttering exhale.

“What?” He asks.

The Tricksters stands behind him now, and Sam could see it all clearly in the mirror, could hear it too, the unclasping of trouser buttons and the way his head hangs down with a moan as he fists itself wildly behind Sam. Sam can’t move but his dick twitches against it’s pillow thrown. Sam mouth waters, he licks his lips to stop himself from drooling, eyes running up and down the Trickster's still too clothed body and Sam groans.

“Sam, Sam, Sam.” The Tricksers is moaning his name like prayer, as a dying man would seek forgiveness from the heavens but not before he asks for a miracle.

And it's there, evident, in it's voice, the plead. Sam stays as dutifully quiet as he can, trying his best to not encourage the Trickster any further, but falling because he can’t not look and he can't stop the expletives from flying out of his mouth. Because shit, he can’t deny how hard and heavy and aching he is for release…he doesn’t know what to do, his mind is spinning anxiety, but it’s not escaping he’s thinking of—it’s—he’s too focus on the Tricksters movements and how they’re getting rougher and sloppier and how the Tricksters can’t stop murmuring Sam name _like that_ into every roll of his hips. 

“Sam,” it moans again, “Sam, all of you—belongs to me.”

And Sam flushes as he imagines what exactly the Tricksters is—is he envisioning himself in Sam? Did he think that Sam would just be so willing to bend over for him? Was the Trickster thinking of the sounds he could squeeze out of him? What confessions could illicit?

And then Sam’s struck with an overwhelming need for a funny story of revenge, he bites his lips and considers what his own hands could wring out from the Tricksters. He closes his eyes in that damn shame. When he opens them, it's the photo renewed. It’s the same colors and composition but different moon. It's charged to the Trickster's un-yielding gaze, the slight curl up of his parted lips, the look of unmeasurable pleasure cut up on it’s face before it screws his eyes shut and his body jerks forwards. The Trickster moans loudly into the quiet room and Sam feels it somewhere vaguely within him—and then suddenly there, for real, warm cum shot at his neck. He feels it trail slowly down the line of his back and stops at the swell of his ass, dripping between his cheeks and Sam’s never felt or seen anything more obscene in his life. He takes a shaky breath in through his teeth and lets it out through his nose, in anger and lust and confusion, and the Trickster’s face curls into a look of disgust before it morphs into a pitying look.

“You prideful shit, fucking a pillow like that,” It says with a cruel smirk, “Pathetic.”

Sam looks down. How had he not notice that his hips were moving? He still can’t move from the spot but the movement feels good, the friction better and more than expected—starved for it, Sam doesn’t spare time. He only wants and he keeps moving, steady and then greedily, until he feels it coming but it's not—he can’t—Sam groans, hips moving, but it’s just not enough. Sam closes his eyes, trying to get a better angle be it's just not, he just can't...

“Gabriel, “ The Tricksters whispers, hot at his ear, “Pray from me, your Gabriel.”

And then Sam is lost, he thrusted from his binds, falls onto his elbows and the pillows are there and they are warm against his rocking body and he is so very close, he can’t stop now, it’s…he’s almost there. He bucks and he heaves, grunting into his forearm, saliva dripping into the sheets, and he tries to stifle his moan, he does, but he’s whining, " _Gabriel, fuck, Gabriel",_ biting into his skin and pulling, body seizing and his cum saturating the pillows beneath him.

“Gabriel, Gabriel,” Sam continues to chant, his body trembling, sensitive, “Gabriel.”

And when Sam's heart has slowed and his eyes open, looking for the Trickster—for Gabriel, he’s disappointed to find only himself first, ass high in the air and neck sticky wet with Gabriel’s seed. He rolls over and stares into the darkness. He hears the outside world return. He knows he’s alone again. He doesn’t bother cleaning himself. Before he falls asleep, he tells himself that he isn’t waiting for Gabriel to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you're taking care of you. The world is ugly, dude. But fic is great.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I hope that you enjoyed this straight up p o r n. Also, hope that you and yours are doing well...despite it all. 
> 
> 3 things: 
> 
> This is meant to be horrific (I started writing this around halloween).  
> Gabriel is ugly in this.  
> This is not romance, but it is hot if you're into this type of thing.


End file.
